When his bright smile turns hungry, I realize my error. Oh, Ellie, you are such a dumb girl. Stop flirting with the hot jock and get your ass out of here.
“If you don’t, I wouldn’t worry. Running shorts, work out T-shirts, and ponytails are moving to the top of the list of things I’m a fan of.”
He leans even closer, and the smell of fresh turf, sunshine, and earthy male fills my lungs and my frame quakes the tiniest bit when I gulp in that dangerous cocktail. This is very bad for me. Yet…I’m not moving.
“So, breakfast?” he prompts with a slightly raised eyebrow. “We can talk about our favorite running shoes and exchange minor details like names and phone numbers.”
“I’m a big fan of New Balance,” I murmur even though I know I should pull away.
“I’m a big fan of names.” He squeezes my hand. “Mine is—”
“Knox! Your smoothie is ready!” A cheery voice calls out from the player tunnel. The sound manages to shake me free from Masters.
“—Knox,” he finishes, as if we hadn’t gotten interrupted. His lips are inches from my ear. “What’s yours?” His hand finds mine again and grips me tight, as if he knows I’ll run away at any moment.
Just Knox? It’s like he’s still hiding. Not giving out his full name, not admitting he’s more familiar with the turf we’re standing on than 99% of the student body, not taking off those mirrored glasses or his hat. If he’s not giving it up, then neither am I. “It’s different,” is all I say.
My dad named me Eliot Campbell. He wanted a second son. He didn't get one, but I got the name regardless.
“Oh no!” cries the musical voice of the smoothie delivery person. “I’m so sorry, miss, but this facility is closed to the public at all times but game time.”
“That’s my cue,” I murmur, mostly to get my own ass in gear. With a twist, I free my hand. “I’m leaving.”
I give a brisk nod to the bouncy blonde in a royal-blue polo. She has the Warriors logo inked above her left breast and she rocks a pair of khaki shorts. Maybe everyone at Western is blessed in the looks department. In her hand, she carries a large Styrofoam cup with a paper-tipped straw.
The blonde nods in approval and shoves the drink into Masters’ empty fist. I use the diversion to sprint off the field and down the tunnel. Stymied by the smoothie-bearing girl and my quick feet, I’m gone before he can stop me.
Knox Masters is a beast in person. I’ve seen him plenty on television, but the screen deceives you on a football player’s size. With the pads, the helmet, the motion, and the angle of the camera, you forget that in real life some of the men are huge.
He’s six-and-a-half feet of hard-bodied, muscled perfection. When he first entered the stadium, he moved so fast I thought it was someone else, a running back or a tight end like my brother Jack. But as he stormed up the stadium steps like they’d insulted his mother, I’d realized who exactly was providing my early morning entertainment.
Masters is famous in the collegiate ranks to anyone who knows football. Even if you’re trying your best to stop caring about it, like it’s the ex-boyfriend you know is bad for you but can’t let go, you’d know who Knox Masters is. Which is why I don’t get his coyness. Not once during our conversation did he say a word that he played. Did he honestly think aviators and a trucker hat made an effective disguise? The guy was on the cover of the college edition of Sports Illustrated a couple of months ago, for crying out loud.
Not to mention, I asked him outright and he sidestepped my question. But he also admitted that he wanted to declare early—a fact widely talked about by the college analysts, but until it came out of his mouth, only speculation. If I wanted a little bit of fame, I could leak that to someone and ruin it for Masters.
I won’t. He knew that somehow.
I’m probably the one person who doesn’t want the stranger in the stadium to be a NFL-bound college football player. If he were some normal guy who liked watching football rather than playing, we’d be at breakfast right now, exchanging numbers, arguing about our fantasy football picks, and finding out exactly what colors of tube tops he liked. But football players and I don’t mix.
On my way back to the apartment, I stop at the campus coffee shop and pick up a caramel mocha latte with soy milk. My new roommate, Riley Hall, has an unfortunate dairy allergy, which means no ice cream for her. I don’t know how she copes with life. I want her to like me because I haven’t had a close female friend in a while, and I’m willing to bribe her with soy milk lattes every morning if that’s what it takes.
She’s up when I get into the apartment, bleary-eyed, leaning against the counter and staring at my tea maker with undisguised frustration.
“Riles, I got you,” I call as I kick the door shut.
She nearly squeals with glee when I hand her the coffee.
“You are a goddess. I knew you were exactly the right roommate for me when your response to my Craigslist ad was that you made a mean cup of coffee.” I open my mouth to confess that the best I know how to do is operate a Keurig, but she waves me off. “I know you lied. It’s enough that you understood that coffee is an essential part of the day.”
“I thought we were destined roommates because we’re two females with male names,” I quip. My first name is Eliot; hers Riley.
“That too.”
“You're up early.” I'm glad for the impulse to stop for coffee.